When I write

Pen on paper

I write and with my writing I share, I convey this, that and the next thing. I condemn what I find cruel, I condone what’s worthy of a rapturous “Bravo!” I comment and toss in my two cent’s worth, I commemorate and I contemplate and grow a lot when I write.

When I write, I aim to educate and pass on what I know, and sometimes just rant. I also learn as I write about this and that.

Having a pen nudges me to feel free and wander around without restrictions. It’s equivalent to being in a place so beautiful and peaceful its sunrise shines through to the darkest of places; its sunset brings forth sublime views known to man, soothing and giving serenity to those who have despaired, thanks to the turbulence in this cut-throat, dog-eat-dog world.

When I write, I seldom rhyme – and I do not care for it much, either – I’d rather have me give light. Illuminate. Give off insight.

With writing comes forth an insatiable appetite for reading. It is a must, actually. Stephen King perfectly observed this: “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time — or the tools — to write. Simple as that.” It’s the perfect exercise for the brain just as sit-ups are for building up your torso. For the brain is like any other muscle on the body, with constant training it develops and becomes a marvel to interact with. I love reading for its ability to catapult a reader far into the depths of the world without moving an inch. Often, while comfortably sitting at some train station, queueing at a taxi rank, doing hair or while on a flight to some place. Reading is accessible, it is unavoidable, coming to think of it – written texts are ubiquitous.

At first, I wrote to delight my soul, oblivious to anything and anyone who might come across my rumblings. I used writing as an emotional outlet. I always giggle when I recall that I owe part of my love for writing to a certain special woman with whom I attended high school. I am holding to whatever pennies which result from it, though. What she does not know, won’t hurt her, I figure.

When I am happy for whatever reason, I grab a pen and scribble to my heart’s content. Likewise, during frustrating times and when all seems to fail, I grab a pen and scribble away.

I connect with myself when I get to keep quiet, sit still and spend quality time with myself. I love and enjoy that. It often results in me writing myself silly, and at times, it does not. Writing has done a lot to deliver me to where I am today, emotionally and otherwise. And with this realisation, it is difficult not to love it.

It brings me joy equivalent to that I experience when I speak and connect with other people. When I get to write, I am content.